


Walking After Midnight

by writingonpostcards



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:24:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingonpostcards/pseuds/writingonpostcards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>But he’s okay. He’s a guy, a dude. He’s got a heavy laptop in his bag that he could whack a serial killer over the head with. Okay.</em> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>Stiles’ breathes in deeply, then out. He’s going for it.</em></p><p> </p><p>Or why you probably shouldn't walk alone along a highway at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking After Midnight

Stiles misses his stop on the bus.

Not a big deal, right?

Wrong. Dear god it’s so wrong. Because it’s the last one before the road cuts several miles through some random wilderness before getting to an entire other town. So it’s understandable that Stiles is panicking slightly.

He panics as he presses the next stop button, and continues panicking as he gets off the bus and stands alone at a bus stop on the outskirts of the wrong town and realises he probably should have stayed on the bus and gotten _into_ the town and then he probably could have gotten a cab, or another bus (because they barely ever come down this particular road late at night) or at least he could have found somewhere with lights to think about his next move.

Because at the moment it’s either sit here and wait for a bus that won’t come for another hour and twenty minutes (he checked) or walk himself back along the road to Beacon Hills.

He chooses the second option.

But he’s okay. He’s a guy, a dude. He’s got a heavy laptop in his bag that he could whack a serial killer over the head with. Of course then he’d loose his thesis and he hasn’t backed it up since Tuesday and he’s just spent three solid days on it so that would be a real bummer. So maybe not the laptop then, but he can throw a decent punch at least. Maybe. His dad did teach him at one point. Thumb on the outside. That’s basically the hardest thing right. And follow through.

Okay. Stiles’ breathes in deeply, then out. He’s going for it.

3 minutes later and he is deeply ensconced in regret of his decision. For one, it’s dark. Dark, dark, dark. And there are no streetlights because there isn’t a pedestrian walkway. Which is point two. He’s quite literally walking on the side of the road over uneven, rocky ground and every now and then against spiky bushes that border it. Point three. It’s cold. Which is probably directly related to point one. He’d dressed for the climate controlled library, not the exposed night time. His jacket and beanie just aren’t cutting it.

Stiles’ jumps to the side, pressing himself into another spiky bush as a car races past at speed. And let’s call that point four. The cars. Stiles has already pictured his probably imminent decapitation by speeding car at least 6 times. Which is making the whole situation worse. Now he has goose bumps from the cold _and_ from being scared shitless. Not a good combo.

Which is why when a car slows down beside him his first instinct is to hide in a bush and screw the spikes. So, of course, he just happens to be in one of the patches of road that has no foliage, just a chiselled through rock face which isn’t allowing any escape.

The window of the car rolls down and Stiles looks around hopefully. Maybe another car will come by. There’s been plenty so far. Right? Or maybe that was just all the ones he’d imagined running him over. Crap. Okay. Well. Time for the laptop.

He grabs his bag in front of his body and turns his attention back to the fully rolled down window.

A head pops out.

It’s an attractive head, even when backlit and silhouetted slightly. An attractive face. With stubble, and thick eyebrows and a (probably deceitful) concerned expression. Because that’s the rule, right? All the attractive ones are creeps? Or is that all the attractive ones are gay? God he hopes it’s the second. Although, like, not for other roadside (read: prostitution) reasons. Even if this saviour/serial killer is very, very, _very_ much Stiles’ type.

“Are you alright?” The man asks, sounding as concerned as his face looks. Which is very. So how to respond. Does Stiles want him to keep on driving. Yes, because otherwise he might get murdered on the side of the road. Or no, because he might get to sit in a warm car for a while and maybe actually just get taken back to where he was meant to get off in the first place.

“I am very alright. Yes. Thank you for asking.” Well, seems he’s going with option one.

“You’re shivering.”

“Yes. That would be the fear.” Stiles immediately wants to slap himself for adding that last part. Isn’t that why these creeps do those creepy things? Because the fear _does it_ for them? God what an idiot.

“I understand that.” Stiles nods/shivers. “I almost didn’t pull over because of it, but it’s nearly midnight and it’s a twenty minute walk to the edge of town. I just wanted to give you the option.”

“Of choosing the site of my murder. Yes, thank you. Much appreciated.” Stiles grips the bag tighter, widening his stance in case this guy tries anything by getting out of the car. He’s split equally between fight or flight (and a little bit of fuck, but he’s trying to quieten that part of his brain).

The guy kills the engine and Stiles backs up, cursing the rock face again when he can’t get far, but the man doesn’t get out of his car. He does rifle in a bag on the passenger seat though and Stiles’ brain immediately assumes to worst. What he pulls out though is his wallet.

“My name’s Derek Hale,” he says as he rifles through the cards in the leather wallet, taking out his driver’s license. “Here.”

He holds it through the window by his thumb and forefinger and Stiles stares at it and then him for a solid amount of seconds before snatching it.

He inspects it. It’s definitely real. And definitely belongs to a Derek Hale. Aged 26. Beacon Hills resident.

“So you’re not lying about your age.”

“Or about getting you back into town safely.”

“You never actually offered.”

“My fault. I thought that was clear.”

Not to Stiles, who has been too busy imagining all the ways a tall, muscled, suit wearing man could kill him on the side of road. There are many ways.

A car does zoom past then from the same direction, but it doesn’t slow down at all, instead bothers to honk a few times as it crosses into the other lane to avoid hitting Derek’s car.

“You can sit in the back if it makes you more comfortable.”

“I’m not sure it would. Kinda gives a chauffeur vibe. Or police car which, yeah, not doing that again.”

“Sounds like I’m the one who should be more worried about letting you into my car.”

Which is a good point, actually. This Derek guy has just as much to lose as Stiles. What if _Stiles_ was the one with a concealed weapon in his bag? He could totally be doing a whole hitchhiking-but-not schtick just to lure empathetic drivers in to steal their wallets and/or lives.

A shiver racks Stiles’ body and it’s that combined with his previous thought that has him moving to the passenger door and getting in.

He shoves his bag at his feet and buckles up, which Derek seems to wait for before restarting the engine and pulling out onto the dark road.

Stiles reaches for the heating to turn it up and then realises he’s essentially a guest and while there is still a possibility he may get murdered soon, he asks, “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

Stiles turns the knob all the way up and then holds his hands out in front of the vents, wiggling his fingers to get the blood flowing, which seems to distract Derek for a second. The car veers to the left.

“Look out.”

“Right. Sorry.” Derek focusses back on the road and Stiles focusses on Derek. He still can’t see him very clearly, but proximity has not made him less attractive.

“So what’s your name, then?”

“Stiles.”

“Strange name.” Derek remarks, glancing over at Stiles with a questioning smile.

“Surprisingly you’re not the first person to tell me that.” Derek makes a noise that could be a laugh but it’s very short that Stiles finds it hard to tell. He wiggles his fingers some more then pulls off his beanie to heat it in front of a vent, planning to put it back on later. “It’s derived from my surname because my given name is one syllable short of an aneurysm.”

This time Derek does laugh for real, Stiles can see it in his eye crinkles.

“And what were you doing walking the road at night, _Stiles_.”

Stiles shoves the beanie back onto his head, fiddling with it to hide the way his cheeks have heated hearing his name curling out of Derek’s mouth. He shoves his hands under his armpits and thinks about his answer. The truth is embarrassing and Stiles finds himself not wanting to embarrass himself (more than necessary) in front of Derek.

“Obviously a tough question.” Derek says during the pause. “Do you not want to talk? It might help pass the time.”

“All 10 minutes of it.”

“You really want me to drop you right at the edge of Beacon Hills? I can take you somewhere closer to where you need to be.”

“Ah, no offense, but I don’t want to reveal my location to you. Stranger danger and all that.”

“Thought we were past that, Stiles. You did get into the car after all.”

And again with his name curling itself off Derek’s tongue.

“Look, Derek, the cold was the major influencing factor in that decision, not any inherent safety I may feel in your presence. Which is very little, by the way. You’re very muscled and I am lanky with sarcasm as a defence.”

“Any whatever the hell is in your bag,” Derek glances at it. “You were clutching it pretty fiercely earlier.”

“My laptop.” Stiles answers promptly before his (irrational?) fear kicks in and he rambles on with his typical over-gesturing, “Which is very old and slow and not at all worth knocking me out for and stealing.”

Derek shakes his head and sighs out, frustration edging into the sound. “Stiles, I’m not going to do anything nefarious to you, alright? Have I given any impression otherwise?”

“Well you…” Huh. That’s actually a good question. He hasn’t at all. Right from the start – before the start – Stiles has been the one imagining all the horrible scenarios that could come out of this situation. But Derek has been a total gentleman really.

Stiles settles himself into the seat and lets his shoulders drop. He actually hadn’t realised they’d been so tense earlier.

“There you go.” Derek says.

“Yeah, yeah. Just wait until _you’re_ the one walking alone at night and some random guy stops to offer you a lift.”

“Been there, done that.”

“Really?” Stiles looks over at Derek. He’s looks entirely too put together to have ever been in Stiles’ where-did-I-put-my-phone-oh-it’s-in-my-pocket position.

Derek doesn’t say anything else though and Stiles bounces in his seat in encouragement. Which does not work.

“Come on! You can’t just leave it at that!”

“I can actually. My car, my rules.”

“But I’m your guest.”

“Don’t think those rules apply in cars.”

“They clearly should.”

“It can’t be bothering you that much, surely. You don’t even know me.”

“Tell me that story and I will.”

“No, tell you that story and you’ll know a little bit about how I used to be 8 years ago.”

“8 years ago! So, classic teenage delinquent then.”

“Mm-hm. Leather jacket and all.”

“No way.” Stiles pictures it in his mind. Young Derek in a leather jacket. Though he’s not young so much as just not as big. It’s a nice picture.

“Do you still have the jacket?”

“Of course.”

“That is so great. I still have my favourite hoodie from the high-school days but that’s probably less of an achievement considering half my wardrobe is from then.”

“Are you sure you’re beyond high school?”

Stiles doesn’t know Derek well enough to tell if he’s teasing or not so he’s just going to go with yes, he is.

“Dude, yes. I have the degree to prove it.”

“I was just joking. What’s the degree in?”

“Public Communications. So like, advertising.”

“And are you doing that currently?”

“Nah. I’m working on my thesis.”

“You can do a thesis for advertising.” Derek’s tone is disbelieving.

“Well no, but I kinda convinced the marketing tutor to let me into his honours course last year so it’s more of a marketing focus. It’s about advertising of children’s toys which is surprisingly fascinating and surprisingly legislated.”

“Makes sense.”

“Yes. Yeah, it does.” And then anyone who knows Stiles would choose this moment to distract him with a different topic but seeing as Derek does not know Stiles, he spends most of the remainder of their, what turns out to feel very short, car ride talking about his research and his paper.

Derek doesn’t seem to mind though, strangely. Asking plenty of questions and actually arguing against Stiles on a few points. It’s… nice.

So when Derek pulls over at the corner where Stiles tells him to, Stiles hesitates to get out of the car.

“I feel like I owe you some kind payment. Do you want some money?” Of course Stiles doesn’t think he _has_ any on him, but he suspects Derek will turn down the offer anyway.

“No, it’s fine. You made my night a lot more interesting than it would have been.”

Stiles smiles at Derek. “I’m glad.”

After a moment where Derek and Stiles just look at each other, Derek tilts his head a little and says, “Actually, what I would accept as payment is a text telling me you got home safely.”

“But I don’t have your number.”

“Easily fixed.” Derek holds his hand out palm up to Stiles and it finally clicks that, in a roundabout way, Derek is asking for Stiles’ number. He grabs his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it, passing it over to Derek but trying not to be too eager about it.

He gets it back after a few seconds and then dawdles with putting it away. It’s close to 1am but Stiles doesn’t want the night to end.

“I was being serious about that text.” Derek whispers next to him, picking up somehow on Stiles’ mood.

Stiles nods and puts his phone away, gathering his bag from the floor and unbuckling.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Speak to you soon, I guess.”

“Don’t guess.”

“Speak to you soon.”

“Better.”

Derek smiles at him and Stiles finally makes his way out of the car and back into the night. He doesn’t feel the cold as much this time as he stands watching Derek’s car turn off into a street and disappear from view.

He walks to his apartment quickly, trying to retain the warmth of the car (and the image of Derek backlit by the moon). As soon as he’s home and his door is shut behind him, before he puts his bag down or takes off his shoes, Stiles finds the recently added contact in his phone and sends a text.

_Home safe. Did I beat you?_

He unpacks his bag, eats a few spoonfuls of yoghurt, and gets changed into pyjamas, and then 8 and a half minutes later as he’s lying in bed with the light off, his phone vibrates on the bedside table.

_Good to hear. And yes. Obviously._

Unsure what else to send but wanting to reply somehow, he settles with a smiling emoticon. Always a classic. His phones buzzes only seconds later this time.

_Go to sleep. It’s late._

Stiles’ smiles through a yawn and lets his fingers move on autopilot. Which is how he ends up with;

_K. See you tomorrow._

If Stiles were more awake he’d probably be sending furious ‘sorry, mistake, I take it back’ texts but he just cannot be bothered. Also he wants to see where it goes. It’s not like he had a bad time with Derek, the opposite really, and he would not be opposed to seeing the man again in a less harrowing and more conducive to actually _seeing_ him setting.

Just as he’s going to put his phone down he gets an incoming text from ‘Derek Hale’ that has him smiling into his pillow.

_Sure. What time?_

**Author's Note:**

> Don't walk along highways at night guys. You will probably not end up with Derek, but rather, in one of the scenarios Stiles feared.
> 
> More life advice (not really) on my [tumblr](http://www.whatthehellisahoechlin.tumblr.com).


End file.
